Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do, well.

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All was silent as before - All silent save the dripping rain.

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Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat, or in the dark, gray town where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man?

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All things must change To something new, to something strange.

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Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise.

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Tomorrow is the mysterious, unknown guest.

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Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest.

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O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on!

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We often excuse our own want of philanthropy by giving the name of fanaticism to the more ardent zeal of others.

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Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending.

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Fair words gladden so many a heart.

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What discord should we bring into the universe if our prayers were all answered! Then we should govern the world, and not God. And do you think we should govern it better?

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Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

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A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thought's of youth are long, long thoughhts

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To be infatuated with the power of one's own intellect is an accident which seldom happens but to those who are remarkable for the want of intellectual power. Whenever Nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

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I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

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The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, And I am near to fall, infirm and weary.

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Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

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I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.

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Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.

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